It takes a village….first hand reports from our surveys.

Garhi Harsaru Higher Secondary School: We’ve just finished the first half of our needs
assessment survey in a government school in Gurgaon. As batches of children, both boys and girls,
sat in the Edusat room in this village school, I could soon identify the children who were having
the maximum difficulty in reading the questionnaire, and writing their answers. Even when these
answers were just a tick mark, or a simple yes or no. Sheer habit made them check with the student
next to them - what had they written? Was their answer right or wrong? No matter how many times I
assured them that there was no right or wrong answer, that it was okay to hate a subject, or all
the subjects, that it didn’t matter if they read the newspaper or not — the children still looked
around with anxiety. It was as if six years of schooling (these were children in class 6 and older)
had robbed any capacity for making their own decisions, their own choices.

As the sessions were drawing to a close, one boy caught my eye. He was thin, small built, yet in class 8.
His name was Sunny. Sunny’s large eyes were a luminous brown, and slightly long hair curled over his forehead.
His shirt had a few tears, but was clean. So were his trousers, and his nicely laced up shoes. Everything spoke
of need and want, but a lot of love and care. Yet, here was this little boy struggling to answer the questions long
after the rest of the children had finished the questionnaire. Boys next to him laughed at him, and walked off.
I sat down next to him, and started reading out each question, and explained what was being asked. Even when he
knew the answer, he seemed scared to write it down. Did he have a learinng disorder? But no, when he did write,
he wrote fine. Finally, after the questionnaire was over, he told me very softly, in a whisper, “Main achcha ga leta hoon.”
(I sing well). As I started smiling, he added,
a tiny crease of worry on his forehead, “Par mujhe adha hi gana yaad rehta hai.”
(But I only remember half the song.” I told him not worry. Who cares if he does not remember. On the radio,
everyone will only hear him. He can read the song from the sheets.

The fear in his eyes receded, replaced by a slightly lost, hopeful look.

As we go into programming, and training, and workshops, and thoughts of health programs
and educational programs and English-speaking programs, I’m driven by that look in Sunny’s eyes,
and those few words whispered in my ears, “Main achcha ga leta hoon.“

Dhankot Higher Secondary School:
Another round of surveys, in yet another school. This time it was Shashi,
a boy in class 9 (fairly small-built, unlike his somewhat bigger classmates),
who caught my attention. The expression on his face while I was talking, the way he was poring
over the questionnaire had anyway caught my eye. Then, he called me over to explain a question:
In the last seven days had they read, heard or seen any news item that they thought was significant?
I’d barely finished my sentence, when he piped up, “The Assam blasts.” I repeated “In the last seven days…
Were those blasts in the last seven days?” “Yes,” he said, firmly. I thought back to the newspaper
front pages of the last one week - yes, the blasts were current news. When I admitted he was right, he said,
almost proudly, “Mein kabhi galat nahin likhta.” (I never write something wrong.)

By the time Shashi finished his questionnaire, the principal walked in.
She’s a very determined woman who has really turned this school around. She’s enthusiastic,
energetic and seems to manage her way around the state’s educational bureaucracy. Shashi got up,
gave me his questionnaire, and asked me, “Iska result kab aayega?” (When will the result come?”
Perhaps he thought this was some sort of selection process for the radio station. Just as I was about
to start answering him, the principal sushed him and said, a little harshly I thought, “What result are
you expecting? Go away and don’t ask silly questions.”

Shashi went out, looking a bit unhappy that the questions jostling inside his head were not being answered.
I was unhappy too - but I didn’t want to talk to him in front of his school principal. It seems he had had a
round of scolding in the morning because he had come to school in slippers.

Five minutes later, the principal left, after her courtesy call. Within a minute,
I saw Shashi hovering around the doorway. I beckoned to him, and immediately he started throwing
questions at me. “Who would get training for the radio
station?” “How would we select the children?” “When would the training start?” “When would broadcast start?”
Completely natural questions, that I was so delighted had been articulated in this child.

Once he got his answers, Shashi was happy as a lark. With a cheery “Good afternoon Ma’am” he took off.